Nameless
by nine miles to go
Summary: Bean gets a scrap of food. Oneshot.


Disclaimer: I don't own anything Orson Scott Card related.

Author's Note: This is set in Rotterdam. Bean's about three, I guess. This is based on a scene that Bean, at four, was describing in the book Ender's shadow somewhere in the first few chapters when he was with Sister Carlotta. It's sad. Warning. Lol.

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The boy was nameless. He didn't know what to call himself, and it had never really occurred to him to give himself a name. Usually he was too busy watching other people. Passerby didn't notice him very often. The alleys were shadowed, even in the daytime, and he observed them. He picked up on languages. Found out how "crews" on the streets worked. One day maybe he'd be part of one.

If he didn't die first, that was. He knew his time was limited if he remained silent in the alleys. It was not a very efficient way to get food. He felt himself deteriorating with every passing day, slowing down and getting weaker. On the rare days a crew would take over his alley and he'd have to cross a street to find a new place to stay, he found himself almost unable to move.

Now he sat perched on a dumpster. He couldn't remember climbing up it and wondered vaguely how he planned to get down. His head was pounding from the hunger. He leaned back against the cold of the brick alley wall, shivering.

Winter was settling in. The autumn had been cold enough, but winter would be worse. He wanted to cry at the thought of it. Would this be the winter that killed him? Or would it be the next? He looked down at his open palm. He couldn't even make a fist.

He looked down at the dumpster. The other orphans had scoured through it earlier that morning. There wouldn't be a lick of food left, and it wouldn't be worth it even if he found some at the very bottom, he'd be so tired from the effort. But he could use a dumpster to keep warm from the wind when it started picking up. Trash days were Wednesdays. He'd keep it in mind.

Another chill ran up his spine. His stomach gnawed painfully in his gut. He felt as if something were clawing it. Even his eyes were throbbing with the ache in his head.

He closed them. It was late at night, anyway. Safest time of day to sleep, even if it was still dangerous at that. But he couldn't sleep. He never could. He was always afraid. Back at the clean place, he'd thought he was safe for awhile. But then it got scary, too. And then living with that man was fine for a while—warm, too, and he wasn't hungry, though he couldn't remember what it felt like anymore—but he knew he had to leave. Here on the streets, there were criminals and baby prostitutes and bullies. Besides, they might think he was dead. That had happened to him once. He woke up because some kid was trying to steal his clothes. Not that they were worth stealing, he thought to himself.

He always slept lightly, trying to stay aware of all of his surroundings. And if he got too comfortable he would have nightmares again. Strange faces and darkness, the sloshing water of his hiding place, falling down further and further.

A strong, welcoming smell wafted out of a kitchen further into the alley. The boy let himself inhale deeply, soaking up its scent and pretending it could fill him. For a moment, it did. He breathed in again. Maybe if he stayed alive long enough, he'd work in a place like that. They served food to people with money, the workers. They'd get to eat the leftovers and nobody would beat them up for it.

The alley door to the place creaked open. The boy kept his eyes shut, pretending to be asleep. Or dead. However the person interpreted it. He didn't want to risk the man not leaving food behind because he thought that there would be trouble in the alley afterward.

The man was so close that the boy could feel his shadow overlapping the shadows of the alley right over him. Something lightly brushed his leg. They boy didn't even breath for fear until the door was safely shut again.

He gasped for air, opening his eyes. He pulled his knees in close to his chest and shook. Why was it so cold? Why was he so stupid that he didn't get himself into a crew? It was too late now. He was too scrawny. Nobody would take him now, not even the soup kitchens. It was just too hard to get in.

After he'd settled himself, he looked down on the lid of the dumpster. He blinked hard disbelievingly. A crust of a sandwich sat there by his leg.

He felt himself salivated. Slowly, he lifted up his aching arm and strained his fingers to wrap around it. It almost didn't make it in his mouth for bad aim. He stuffed it in all at once, looking towards the mouth of the alley and making sure that no one was there. It tasted amazing. His jaw was sore from chewing in the first seconds of it, so he sucked on it for a moment and continued to rigorously chew it. Anything to fill the void in his stomach.

He struggled to swallow, his throat dry and foreign to him with the weight of the food. He smiled to himself, his parched lips cracking. When was the last time he'd smiled?

"Hey, you!"

The boy flinched and turned to see a bully much larger than he was. The bully was probably around eight, but there was the gauntness of hunger in him, too. He was furious at the boy.

So as the bully approached, he didn't say anything.

"You got food? Little fart brain's got food and don't share it? You too good for street kids, little baby?" he taunted, his voice rising with anger.

The boy felt himself tremble. "Got no food," he said, strenuously lifting up his arms to prove it. It wasn't a lie, either. All that was left was the faint, sugary residue of the bread on his teeth. He willed himself not to suck it off and draw attention.

"I see you here, I see your food." The bully picked up a stick. The boy cowered away as the bully mounted a box and lifted himself to the dumpster lid.

"Got none," the boy repeated desperately, trying to back away.

It was dark. When the bully was close enough that the boy could see his face, it was mad with hunger and need. The boy felt his heart catch in his throat, the crust settling into his empty stomach. What was he going to do with a measly stick, hit him until he fell off the dumpster? Well, he wouldn't let him.

The boy was about to try for a leap off the lid when the bully pulled him back by his shirt collar. "You not getting away, you greedy pinprick. You not getting away, food thief, fart brain," the boy ranted crazily.

He could hardly resist the bully. He was too weak to move, let alone struggle. The bully forced him down and pried his mouth open. What's he going to do? the boy thought. Grab it out of me? It was too late. He'd swallowed it.

Before he knew what was happening, he was gagging. Bile burned in his throat; he fought to keep it down to no avail. The stick was removed just before he leaned his head over and threw up the slop that was once the magnificent bread crust. Then he dry heaved, nothing left in his system. He moaned. The roof of his mouth was stinging and tasted of blood where the stick ran across it.

He felt himself shoved off of the dumpster. The shock of the impact kept him from crying out. Black spots formed at the corner of his eyes; he rolled over from his burning right side onto his back and gasped in agony.

Above him he could hear the bully trying to lick up the vomit. He closed his eyes, feeling disgusted and sick. He wished he hadn't eaten it. He wished he'd ignored it or given it away or even thrown it at the wall.

Tears welled up in his eyes. He heard the bully wretch above him, the vile taste having made him throw up as well. It wasn't fair. He'd already had food that day, obviously. And now the boy would have none.

The bully hopped down from the dumpster, kicked the boy cruelly and muttered something in another language before leaving the alley. The boy just laid there, tears streaming down his face. He carefully sat back up and leaned against the cold metal of the dumpster, licking his own tears as they slid down his cheek.

He hugged his knees again, his body wracking with silent sobs until he finally began to drift back to sleep. Not for the first time, he wondered if it was even worth trying to live through the winter. What did the world have to offer him?

The boy finally closed his eyes and slept. Little did he know, he would make it through this winter and more to come. He'd have a name. And this child, not even worth a bean, would one day grow up to help save the world.

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(SOBS) Okay, that's enough Bean torture for one day. Like I said, though, the whole scene was Orson Scott Card's and I wrote about it. I probably wouldn't have written a barf scene otherwise. Iiiiicky. Review!


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